


Postscript

by Calico



Series: Passing Notes [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:50:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calico/pseuds/Calico
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Postscript, n. Afterthoughts, an additional remark at the end of a letter.</p><p><i>Lestrade's hands are still shaking as he walks away.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Postscript

Lestrade's hands are still shaking as he walks away. He stuffs them deeper in his pockets, keeps his head down: nothing to see here. The post-dawn clanking and hissing of central London is beginning to gather momentum around him. Give it twenty minutes and Baker Street will be at a standstill, but right now the roads are only flowing with light traffic, and Lestrade feels like he passes unnoticed into the tube station.

He descends into the hot maw of the Underground, and is immediately immersed in a rush of other commuters: bedraggled, over-plucked, alarm-clock-shocked, slurping on take-away coffee cups like their lives depend on it.

He's carried onto his tube in a crush of them. The tube hisses and shudders, as if gathering itself, before roaring away; the world glides by in unforgiving bright blocks. Cheap flights to Europe, controversial ballet in the West End, _Have you considered plastic surgery?_ – roving past with odd significance because he's just so fucking _on_ right now.

They hare out of the yellow-lit station and into darkness. Lestrade swallows, pressing his lips together. The back of his mouth feels like it's glowing. He can't believe John let him do that. _There_. John likes risk, though. That much shines out of him, in his eagerness to chase Sherlock through dark alleyways and into disreputable company. John likes risk, and men, and Sherlock provides an irresistible combination of the two.

John's mouth had tasted of his rocket-fuel coffee with a tang of hastily-chewed mint gum – that's a safe memory. Lestrade closes his eyes and shuts off the thought before it can dive into the gutter. He's propped up in public and his hands are _still_ trembling – he doesn't need to add an erection to this nightmare.

He had been hard though. It made him so fucking hard, feeling John swearing against his temple as Lestrade sucked on his neck. Urgency had descended over him, not unlike a mist of anger, and for those ten – five? three? – minutes he'd felt on top of the world. It was like the years melted away, leaving him nineteen and ravenous again, having just discovered that you could touch a stranger's cock and the world wouldn't immediately end.

Everything had been intoxicating, with John's hands clutching at him – even stupid things, like the familiar smell of their hallway. Lestrade had long associated the peculiar scent of an over-straining vacuum engine, mixed with mothballs and tobacco smoke, with the on-edge feeling he got around Sherlock: a potent mingling of anticipation and dread. Now there will be another ingredient in the mix, but he can't yet tell if it's relish or regret.

The train jolts, and Lestrade grips a handrail hard and forces himself to think of something else. Anything but his own body, the warm places there, the handprints John left, the raw point on his lower lip that his tongue wants to play with. Anything neutral, unrelated to the other thought—the one he doesn't want to hear even in the privacy of his own mind.

He tries to turn his attention outwards, to keep that thought quiet by cramming his brain with normality. There isn't much to distract him, though. Most of his fellow commuters seem to be engrossed in their phones, jabbing and clicking, their chins tucked in as they focus down on tiny screens. Reducing the effectiveness of witnesses, one app at a time. _I saw nothing, mate – I was on Twitter._

The train half-empties at Edgeware Road, then fills again, to capacity and then some. Lestrade is pushed back against the wall, pushchairs and briefcases jostling at his knees. He can hear a faint tinny buzz of music, even over the noise of the tube, from a big guy's headphones; he doesn't recognise the song. To his left, someone stifles a sneeze, and a pinched-looking man opposite frowns and tucks his nose into his scarf.

Lestrade's gaze darts from face to hand to pocket to face again, the carriage starting to spin, and then he closes his eyes and rests his head back against the wall, abruptly exhausted. He doesn't know how Sherlock does it, relentlessly drinking in the details, forever thirsty for more. Processing, always processing. In this state, Lestrade finds even just keeping his eyes open overwhelming.

In the brief silence of his mind, that unwanted thought muscles its way to the fore: _How could I do that?_

 _How?_

He doesn't mean the sex. He means – the message. Sex with _John_. He's spent the best part of four years haunted by a vague dread, waiting for the axe of Sherlock's attention to fall on him. Trying to put off the moment when Sherlock would realise he could have Lestrade in the palm of his hand in more ways than one. For years, he'd hoped to avoid bringing it up – so what on earth had possessed him tonight, to draw Sherlock a diagram?

Well, that look John had given Sherlock... That wasn't quite it, though. He'd also noticed for the first time how Sherlock watched John in return. Sherlock has a certain look that he gives to everything he un-selfconsciously regards as his for the taking: the floorspace beyond police tape, occupied taxi cabs, Lestrade's cup of takeaway coffee. It's nothing like how he looks at John. Quite the opposite. He looks upon John as if he's dependable but untouchable; comes when he's called, but can't be scooped up without a fight or a look of surprise.

He's done them a favour, Lestrade tells himself, as the train hurtles to a stop in another station, blotting out the noise from the other passengers in a dragon-roar of hot air and squealing brakes. He's shown Sherlock that John can be touched, without the world ending or the instigator getting a black eye.

Selfless, Lestrade tells himself, that's what he was. Remembering the crack in John's voice as he came.

.  


* * *

  


The first time Lestrade clapped eyes on Sherlock, he was loitering outside a crime scene.

"Inspector," Sherlock said, smiling as if they were old acquaintances, and if Lestrade hadn't been experiencing a stab of arousal so sharp he could taste, it he would almost certainly have smiled in return and passed on, to think no more about him.

"Name," he barked instead.

Sherlock's congeniality snuffed out. "Sherlock Holmes," he said, and gave Lestrade a once-over that made the hairs rise of the backs of his arms. "Judging by the state of your tie, I'm just in the nick of time. You're about to give in, turn this over to the clean-up team, though the ragged edge to your thumbnail tells me that you don't believe it's an open-and-shut case any more than I do. Let me in and I'll prove it wasn't the cousin, and was, in fact, the neighbour's estranged secretary, aided and abetted by none other than your friend Edward Stone."

"He's not my friend," Lestrade said, reeling slightly from the overdose of purring baritone.

Sherlock smiled, a flash of something that looked genuine. "Well, no," he said. "You're competing over the same woman, any fool could see that. Hardly friendly."

Wrong. They'd been competing over the same side of the bed. No love lost between them, but by God could Teddy Stone show a man a good time.

Lestrade felt almost giddy with relief, that Sherlock had missed this one thing. He waved Sherlock across the threshold, and the next thing he knew, Stone – a city slicker with a welcoming mouth, who could do amazing things with his little finger but was all too fond of dancing on the knife-edge of the law – was pleading guilty not only to this case but also to a handful of other small legal thorns in Lestrade's side.

"Thanks," Lestrade said to Sherlock, two weeks later, letting himself look straight into those knowing eyes, even as he resolved not to let his weaker impulses trespass on his work ever again.

"My pleasure," Sherlock said, and Lestrade realised that was true: Sherlock's business _was_ his pleasure, it was right there, glittering.

 _Fine,_ Lestrade thought, rattling down his mental security shutters. _Good._

Best possible outcome, really. The last thing Lestrade needed was a dalliance with a promising new aide in police investigations. It was a good thing Sherlock hadn't picked up that Lestrade could be open to a good time with discreet friends, considering.

It was only later that he realised that of course Sherlock had deduced his sexuality in that first stop-motion glance, along with his socio-economic status, his dreams and aspirations, how he took his tea; it just hadn't suited him to reveal it at that juncture. As for whether it had occurred to Sherlock that he himself could be the focus of that sexuality—well. Lestrade did his best to put that question from his mind. He didn't have a hope of guessing what Sherlock thought, if indeed he thought anything, about that; and in truth, Lestrade found he didn't really want to know how little interest Sherlock had in such things.

Until now.

.  


* * *

  


It's gone seven a.m. when he gets home to the pleasing cool dimness of his flat. He doesn't bother turning on the light. The curtains in his front room are outlined in white-gold morning sunshine, and he has no desire to let any more of that brightness in.

He heads straight into his bedroom, where it's almost completely black. The curtains in here are thick, with no light penetrating around the edges – a necessity from the early days of nightshift nightshift nightshift – but he's been here nearly ten years, now, and can move around in the dark without a problem. He makes a bee-line for his bed, shedding his clothes without much thought, greedy now for the feeling of _lying down_.

Ten years, he thinks, sitting on the bed to peel off his socks, his eyes beginning to adjust to the gloom. Ten years in the same bedroom, with only occasional visitors. Plenty in total, he supposes, but few recently, and fewer still for longer than a night. He definitely has a type, these days. And a routine. He likes it in his own bed, often with the lights off, enjoying the thrill of anonymous urgency, the pleasant sense of control that comes with it being his territory, his rules.

He slides himself between the cold sheets and shivers a bit. It's definitely been a while. That's as good a reason as any for why he went for it with John, he thinks: _Blue balls, pure and simple_. He reaches over and, grimacing, sets his bedside alarm for five hours' time. His next shift starts at two. He lies down and shuts his eyes, knowing he has to make every minute of sleep count.

His head is pounding, though, his brain full of thoughts like ash-sparks rising off a bonfire.

He thinks again of John, of Sherlock, of what should have happened. They shouldn't have done it in the hallway, is what should have happened. The hallway was cowardice. It was writing the message, but not delivering it by hand.

They should have gone upstairs to where Sherlock was – under the pretence of a drink of water, say, or maybe under no pretence at all. He should have caught John in the kitchen, leaned close and said—something. _Tell me if I should go._

 _Tell me if I should stop_ , John could have replied, reaching for him.

Lestrade slips his hand down under the covers to where he's getting hard again, and adjusts his cock to lie flat against his stomach. He's not going to jerk off. He's too exhausted. It would waste too many precious minutes. But he can't deny the image has merit, makes him shiver again. _Tell me if I should stop._

 _Don't stop._

Even if Sherlock rounded the doorway of the kitchen, glaring at them for disturbing the peace; _keep going_. Hands gripping the edges of clothes, nothing more explicit, but it would be enough for Sherlock to tell what was going on. Not the sort of struggle he's used to. And then, what? He could get angry or not, get jealous or not. He could leave, stay or—watch.

Lestrade groans under his breath, stroking himself after all. His subconscious has been plucking at this idea for about twelve hours: him and John, performing under Sherlock's scrutiny. Touching each other, grinning and growling, physical need making them coarse and confident while Sherlock drinks it all in.

There would be no concerns about noise, if they weren't trying to hide.

He imagines dropping to his knees and looking up to see Sherlock's fingers touch John's face, tracing his bitten lip, thumb brushing over his closed eyes. The idea of being a life study for him is worryingly hot. He imagines Sherlock reaching between them to take Lestrade's pulse, as he fumbles open John's fly, and then his interest spikes up a notch and he imagines Sherlock's hand cupping the back of his head: urging him forwards on John's cock, pressing, coolly interested in how much he can take, as John pants and groans.

He imagines Sherlock's face level with his, as he swallows around John's cock, those sharp eyes dark with calculation—and then, the ultimate triumph, Sherlock undoing his own belt and moving in front of him; " _Now me_."

Lestrade comes back to himself in a frenzy, knees bent, panting in the darkness as he strokes off fast and hard. It's not the first time he's done this to the idea of sucking Sherlock's cock, but throwing John into the mix adds some crazy spice, and it's the memory of John's voice, broken breaths of " _fuck, fuck, God_ ," that finally tips him over.

Afterwards, he barely has the strength to wipe himself off before he falls asleep, on his back, feeling as if he's falling a long, long way.

.  


* * *

  


The next day, he drags himself out of bed, goes to work wide-eyed with caffeine, then stumbles home at the end of it all promising himself a proper night's sleep. As he climbs the stairs to his flat he checks his phone for the tenth time, just in case (just in case of what?), but there's nothing new there.

Inside, he peels off his work clothes and pulls on a t-shirt and his oldest, softest jeans. He grabs a bottle of beer from the fridge and eases down into an armchair, beer in one hand, the remote in the other.

He's asleep in front of some car-chase movie when there's a knock at the door.

He answers it, then blinks, unsure that he's not still passed out in front of the TV.

"John," he blurts, hardly a suave response, but seeing John here, framed in his doorway, a look of determination on his face, the faintest hint of a nervous smile—it's the last thing he expected.

"Sherlock sent me," John says, and starts unzipping his jacket.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to She Who Must Not Be Named for excellent beta, as always. *g*
> 
> And yes: there will be a Part 3.


End file.
